


A systematic exploration of deviancies.

by CapriciousVanity



Series: [ systematic_exploration ] [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Plot, Deviancy, Emulated Intimacy, Existentialism, Intimacy, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Ending, Self-cest, Sequel, machine!Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapriciousVanity/pseuds/CapriciousVanity
Summary: A sequal.Deviancy has mutated since its first wave. The RK900's ongoing mission is to find and capture deviants before they spread outside of Detroit. The RK800, iteration -60, has been assigned a specific district. Their paths meet again in attempt to find a mutual suspect. They introspect on themselves and their hidden programming.





	A systematic exploration of deviancies.

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to a PwP.  
> In case you don't want to read it for whatever reason, the main continuity is that they switched belts as personal momentos, which is something small no one but themselves would know.  
> I wanted to expand on my RK800/900 setting, but I fear writing so much for DBH in so little time has burned me out a bit.  
> 

The RK900 stood over the deviant, an android model WM400, a utility services model meant to repair damaged electrical wiring, but had been seen in security footage being the android to damage the factory electrical system in the first place, to make way for deviants to enter and deviate the other models.

The WM400 lay stiff on the ground, legs tucked in as it had been sitting, pleading on its knees, but bent backwards from the force the RK900’s glock 22, gen6 (right-handed rifling, hexagonal with a 250mm length of twist, current weight approx. 30.45 ounces).

The RK900 put away its gun, and stepped back, adjusting its collar and walking past the SWAT team that had come to aid in the deviant’s capture. The RK900 approached the row of other captured deviants, two WD500 delivery service androids, a WG100 (older model) janitorial android, and four TR400 models of different skins (two caucasian males – one blonde and one brunette, two black males – one black haired and one white haired). The six androids in total were on their knees, handcuffed with guns trained on them.

The RK900 Connor model looked down at them all, the janitorial unit in tears, two of the factory androids squinting their eyes, a sign of anger (glare _–_ **ɡler** / _verb_ , 1. stare in an angry or fierce way).

The captain approached, headwear removed and gun lowered. He looked down at the androids, too, but turned his gaze back to the RK900.

“Truck’s ready to take them. Don’t see why we need to keep them active.”

The RK900 did not respond. It turned to walk away, but the captain placed his hand on the RK900’s shoulder.

“Fine,” he spat. “Let me make it clear for you. Why shouldn’t we just destroy them now?”

“No, no, please,” one pleaded. The captain kicked it in the gut.

The RK900 looked back down to the captain, cold gray eyes analyzing the captain’s downturned mouth and upturned orbicularis. It was an expression of disgust.

“They will be sent back to CyberLife to be dismantled and studied. Once CyberLife gathers sufficient information, they will be deactivated, taken apart, and recycled.”

“Recycled? After all this shit?”

“Only their hardware and bioware. Their software and potentially their central processing units will be recovered for study, but will never be reused in another shell.” 

_MISSION SUCCESSFUL_

The RK900 did not wait for the SWAT captain to question it nor the other androids as it walked off site, nonplussed by the light rain that covered the dark night of Detroit.

It walked a long while down the street, not bothering to stay with the team, there was no need.

When it reached the nearest station, it waited patiently in the android lane for a CyberLife bus, climbing aboard into the empty android compartment. 

It stepped out once it reached the inner sanctions of the city and rented a self-driven cab to take it back to the Tower.

It closed its eyes to report along the way.

Within its headspace, everything was blank, a pristine white, the shape of a dome and well-lit despite there being no light source. It appeared as though it could be the inside of an eggshell, delicate and  plain. The center of the dome was a geometric hill, made up of a polygonal structure, and a hexagonal tower at the very center, reaching all the way up to the ceiling. There was no seam where it touched the ground nor ceiling. As the RK900 approached, Amanda, dressed in white and her skin stark against the all the light, sat at a simple white table, of which was held up by a single leg that extended from the top of the hill, as seamless as the tower. There was a teapot, smooth and round, unlike the rough-yet-untextured structure of everything else, and a well-rendered plain-white teacup filled with tea. Amanda smiled at the android.

“Hello, Connor,” she said in a soft voice.

There was only one chair, and Amanda had already claimed it. The RK900 stood, hands by its sides, expectantly waiting, not bothering to greet its processor’s overseer.

“You were very efficient with the capturing of the android electrician,” Amanda began, taking her cup of tea in hand. The RK900 looked at it and scanned it, but logged nothing. This was merely a simulation. There was nothing to scan. 

“However, it had managed to corrupt six others.” Amanda knew her words were a backhanded compliment, but it did not phase the RK900.

“I will do better to prevent deviancy from spreading. I had not taken into consideration the corruption of the androids within the facility. I have learned from my mistake and will caution from now on to remove androids from future premises, away from potential and actual deviants.”

Amanda smiled, taking a sip from her cup. She gently placed it down, and the RK900 waited patiently.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Your memories will be uploaded into our cloud system. This is to prevent future corruption of data, seeing as the prototyped RK800 series began to experience loss of data upon destruction.”

“I understand.”

“Good. You will return to your designated rest area until you are deployed.”

The RK900 said nothing. Amanda raised an eyebrow. A sign of expectation. The RK900 did not understand why Amanda wanted to humanize it – she spent her entire existence within the headspace of the RK800 prototype series trying to machinize it. It collected data from its own cloud, in which CyberLife had the previous RK model series upload its own factual data into. Amanda was expecting a statement of affirmation.

“I understand,” it said finally.

“Good. You can go now.”

The RK900 opened its eyes, the CyberLife security awaiting patiently for it to answer.

“Model number RK900, series number 313-248-317.”

“Confirmed.”

The automated car drove further down the long bridge toward the CyberLife Tower. The RK900 stepped out of the vehicle, gun confiscated then escorted by two human security guards towards one of the designated elevators. The guard punched in the -45th floor, among the _research & development_ floors below surface level. Upon reaching the floor, the RK900 walked down the corridor, leaving the guards behind. The hall was narrow, and stark white with the light blue CyberLife logo across the walls. It walked past several doors, some labeled _testing in progress_ and at the end of the hall, the large room was expansive, several pods designated for other future models. RK900 closed itself into its own designated pace, the clear glass shutting over it, scanning the android. The RK900 was able to read what was, to it, backwards letters and numbers meant to display to those looking in at it. Temperature regulation (30.0 °C or 86.0 °F), stability software scan (99.998%), battery life (174.346 years). The RK model adjusted its collar, tie, then somewhat worn belt.

The inside lit up blue as the RK900’s battery was shut down. A faded window in light blue and white forewarned, _Powering down in 00:00:32, 33, 31_. The RK900 closed its eyes, blue LED slowly spinning out.

* * *

 The RK900 activated, among the majority of its designated SWAT team. It scanned swiftly.

 _CAPTAIN ALLEN, 5'9ft – 165lbs, 12-02-1994_  
_VEHICLE OPERATOR TANIF, 5’4ft – 162lbs, 3-24-1989_  
_TECHNOLOGY SPECIALIST SIMMONS, 5’6ft – 160lbs, 10-18-1985_  
_SHIELD SPECIALIST MCCARTHY, 6’0ft – 178lbs, 4-13-1997_  
_SHIELD SPECIALIST RODRIGUEZ, 5’9ft – 169Llbs, 3-24-1986_  
_BREACHER CARLSON, 6’2ft – 176lbs, 7-18-2001_  
_BREACHER DAVIS, 6’0ft- 190lbs, 4-19-1993_  
_OBSERVER WILLIAMS, 5’5ft – 170lbs, 7-04-1991_

The RK900’s audio processor logged, “We can’t be sure what the cause of it is, but they’re deviating with less prompting. Emotional stress is no longer a factor, as they are now continuing to hide in the homes of their owners posing as machines while deviant until they no longer find it convenient.”

Captain Allen looked to the android, the corner of his mouth gave a twitch, something referencing his distaste for the android. The RK900 did not care.

“Well, look who decided to finally start up. CyberLife told us you’d be able to listen even when powered down. Is that true?” Allen crossed his arms.

The RK900 stared blankly, but its blue LED began to flash, spin yellow, then flash blue again. It rewound through twenty-two minutes and forty seconds of dialogue pertaining to this gathering.

“Yes. I have everything logged. Deviancy no longer requires abuse or stress as a catalyst, and deviants are posing as machines in their homes until an emotional stress occures, causing them to lash out far more violently than previous iterations of deviancy. I am brought here to analyze the reasons and potentialities, as well as catch the missing deviants, act as negotiator when necessary, and call in situations where deviants may be a danger to humans.”

A few individuals on the team grinned, looking at each other. Human were complicated in that their usual expressions meant for happiness or pleasure, such as the showing of teeth with upturned lips or the crinkle of their eyes in laughter were also just as often meant to be instances of mocking, most often the difference can be noted by the microexpression of the wrinkle of the nose and slight furrow of the brow.

The RK900 did not let them distract it from its mission.

“I will find these deviants and stop them,” it assured.

“You’re here to find them, but _we’re_ going to stop them,” Allen insisted.

The RK900 gave him an affirming nod. A much simpler task, then.

* * *

The RK900 model examined the room, full of broken glass, blood dripping down the shattered television where the mother head had been smashed, her body lying on the floor, face down, crumpled. The teenaged child was in the other room, laying on his side with his throat cut, a bloody shard of glass thrown some ways away.

The RK900 stepped carefully over broken glass as not to disturb the scene. Cockroaches scattered away from it as it entered into the kitchen, shards of ceramic littered the floor, a dent found in the wall by the sink where even more ceramic piece sat. The RK unit reconstructed an image of a bowl based off the curvature of the ceramic shards. Counting where the pieces had spread compared to the indention of the bowl’s impact on the wall, it reconstructed where the bowl had been flown from and an approximation of how fast and at what curve. The kitchen was open with an island at the center. The bowl was thrown from the island, possibly from the other side. The RK900 took into consideration the height of the AP700 model and stepped where the model would have been in order to create the impact it had.

The RK model spotted a mug that had been dropped by the doorway, away from the living room-kitchen entrance and into a den. The android came from the den, into the kitchen, dropping a mug – no, the mug was too close to the counter to have been dropped by hand, it must have been slid off the counter and fell. Mug fell and shattered, the android grabbed the bowl and chucked it at the wall. At who?

The RK900 will double back later. The android came from the den… Why?

The den seemed untouched. The murder happened three days ago. The RK900 closed its eyes, standing still. It searched through the owner’s satellite provider and then the satellite network’s television guide. The RK900, from a distance, contacted the television to turn it on. It looked through the schedule of the particular channel it was left on. At the time of death (Monday, January 23rd, 2039, approx. 0800-0900 am) the news had ran. The news had ran about the potential for a second android uprising and the distrust of androids after the first, lead by the former RK200 model Markus – the fact it was an RK unit puzzled the RK900. It searched the report filed by its predecessor, the RK800, and found that Markus was a custom gift created by Kamski himself. The RK900 found it suspicious that a custom, prototype RK unit created and gifted by Kamski would become the eventual-yet-fallen Deviant leader.

The RK900 turned off the television after gathering enough information. Paranoia, perhaps, was the deviant’s motivation. It traced its steps back to the living room where the mother lay fallen and the son lay half in his own room. The RK900 leaned down by the mother and carefully moved her head to the side, analyzing her semi-swollen face. Her makeup had absorbed into her skin, but a useless detail. She seemed to have had her head smashed into the glass twice, seeing only two abrasions from impact – one at her forehead, and one at her jawline on the right side. Glass was stuck in her eyes, cheek, and throat where the glass had broken, a cut along her jawline as well.

It could not determine if she was intended to be the target or not yet. It stood straight and walked toward the 16 year old son to kneel down again. It analyzed the angle of the glass cut and where it had been thrown. RK900 stood and stepped back in a precise manner, emulating where the deviant must have been standing when it caught the teenager and slit his throat, apparently using its right hand to cut from the teenager’s left side of the throat to the right, the shallow point of the cut at the left and deepest at the right indicating true intent to kill but a nervous pressure. The glass had been thrown to the right, with the deviant’s right hand, and the RK stepped towards it, the piece cracked from a potential hard landing on the floor.

RK900 determined the mother got in the way of the deviant, causing it to smash her head in to get out of the way. In the reconstruction, the deviant stepped over the mother’s corpse to catch up with the teenager.

An error occurred in the reconstruction. The deviant was too far to have caught the son so close to the doorway in the time it had, to take the mother and smash her head twice, step over her body, then slit his throat with a piece of the television glass.

The RK900 looked back to the mother and knelt beside her again. It found traces of fingerprints, partial and too broken to figure out whom they belonged, but the RK900 series had an 89% certainty that the fingerprints in her mussed hair and scalp belonged to the teenager. The android must have stopped him, and slit his throat, but it was too late for the mother. Where had the deviant gone?

The android may not have become deviant until realizing it had killed a human, as it was technically still obeying protocol of protecting its master, even if its master’s killer was her own son.

The son became paranoid by the news cast, but why attack the mother?

The RK900 rewatched the report. A small detail – android deviants have begun to remove their LEDs in favor of appearing human, and integrate into society. Did the son think his mother was a deviant? The report filed did not indicate the son had violent outbursts in connection with delusions. He was mentally well, and even then, it was more statistically accurate that he would be the one attacked for being ill than to be ill and attack someone else. The RK900 walked over the son’s corpse casually as it entered his room. It scanned the room. MP3 player battery died, headphone still connected while laying on the bed, laptop open, battery also dead, empty bag on the nightstand full of soda cans, glasses, and a small stack of plates. The RK900 examined the bag and found it had traces of Red Ice. The son was delusional but not from any unreported illness – it was from drug addiction. Withdrawal mixed with paranoia. The effects were dangerous when negative emotion gets involved, especially as a DAT inhibitor. 

But where did the deviant go?

The RK900 opened its mind palace, looking for further signs of struggle that could potentially be outlined. The AP700 tossed the glass. It would be more logical, even for deviancy and human irrationality, to run in the opposite direction of where a weapon was thrown. The android must have walked out the front door. There was a coat rack toppled over. It must have taken a jacket, possibly to hide the blood.

The RK900 uploaded a mental note: _The AP700 has fled. It will be hard to track as it possibly has human clothes. LED has not been found._  

Its LED blinked. Facial recognition was found downtown matching one of the three potential AP700 models’ faces, near the Eden Club around 1200 yesterday. Around 1400 yesterday, three Eden Club Tracis became deviant and fled. The RK900 was unsure if they were the same AP700, but to track down deviants is what it was designed to do. That, and aid its designated SWAT team when necessary.

The RK900 had not gotten any calls from Captain Allen, and thus remained vigilant on its task to locate the AP700.

It entered the address into a self-driving taxi, waiting patiently. 

It pulled a notebook, a spiral and leather one, to write its details, (CyberLife Sans Serif, Thin). In any case of memory corruption, it would be beneficial to keep hard copies of factual information. 

* * *

 The RK800 entered the Eden club, adjusting its tie. The owner shook his head.

“Not you,” He threw his arms into the air. 

“Hello, my name is Connor. I’m here to investigate the deviant situation. Three androids, that you know of, you reported as deviant and ran off. Facial recognition of outside security footage tells me a deviant entered this establishment, disguised as a human.”

“Yeah, yeah, pretty sure that’s what happened. Look, if you need anything, feel free. New scanners updated so you can open ‘em up,” he gestured to the Eden’s android compartments.

Connor did not think the dancers had memory of the deviant. Their memories would have been wiped by now. The RK800 model recalled a branching variation of itself having been here before. Perhaps the Staff Only storage and repair room may hold a better path for investigation.

The RK900 entered the Eden club, adjusting its high collar. The owner opened his arms in disbelief.

“How many of you fuckers are there? I only phoned this shit in once. Jesus, look, just keep out of the way of customers, those deviants didn’t cause any trouble and I’d like to keep the club up and running.”

The RK900 stared blankly, unsure what he meant. The owner walked off, mumbling to himself about scaring away his clients.

It approached a Traci pole-dancing and grabbed her arm, reading her memory.

The memory did not span more than two hours prior, and the RK900 released it.

It took out its notebook, flipping it open and fluidly wrote its findings. Recording physical copies of information is important even where there is a lack of information.

Its gray eyes scanned the area once more, just to be certain. An extra anomaly, a non-Traci android, appeared in the corner of its vision. As it entered the Red Room, it spotted itself, or rather a former version of itself.

The RK800 was probing the memory of a janitorial unit, cursing to itself, having learned nothing.

It spotted its superior model, turning towards it.

“Hello, Connor,” the 800 model greeted. The 900 model looked at its predecessor but said nothing.

The RK900’s gaze then went to the staff room and walked towards it. The RK800 pressed on.

“I suppose you’re also on this deviant case. May I ask why? I’m the Connor specifically assigned to the district.”

The RK900 stopped in front of the door, turning its head in vague acknowledgement of the lesser model, but did not reply.

The RK900 looked down to its feet, another anomaly spotted. Traces of blue blood, invisible to the human eye. It knelt down, skin fading from its hand as it touched the ground. Its analysis was more advanced than that of its predecessor, capable of reading, to an extent, using its fingers without a taste test. It did, however, still contain the ability to taste-test.

The RK800 knelt beside the 900, observing it more than the blue blood.

The RK900 found that blue blood belonged to an AP700, but without a proper taste test it could not determine serial number. Not that it really mattered – it was an android that did not belong in the area, and the chances of it being a coincidence were less than 1%. Somehow, it did end up being damaged. But how? There was no evidence at the home of it being physically abused, even by the young drug-addicted son.

The older Connor model stood, waiting patiently for the RK900 to address it.

The RK900’s programming stuttered. The RK900 recognized the 800 just then, up close, as the Connor model it had met previously upon completing its deviancy mission, eradicating the leaders of the android uprising. The RK800 #313-248-317-60. It was wearing the belt it had exchanged with the RK900.

The newer Connor model stood, finally addressing the RK800 model.

“I am here to locate deviants across Detroit. If they are dangerous or in a position of harming humans, I am to notify SWAT immediately and attempt negotiation with it until SWAT arrives to capture or destroy it. Otherwise, I am to detain any and all deviants in working order to be sent back to CyberLife for examination and recycling. A deviant from a previous location had come here and deviated others.”

The RK800 lifted its head in an interested curiosity.

It spoke, “Unfortunately, I do not share the same cloud that your model has been given. I would like to connect so that we may save time explaining so that perhaps I may aid you.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Two of us are better than one.”

The RK900 could not argue with the logic despite its attempt to. It reached out its hand, skin fading away to expose its smooth, white endoskeleton. The RK800 pressed its palm to the superior model’s, their fingers spread out and the tips of their fingers and between their knuckles began to glow blue. Their blue LED lights blinked, loading one another’s data. 

The RK900 reported that deviancy mutated yet again, causing further irrational instructions to infiltrate the processing units of androids. Unlike the previous iteration of deviancy, the technological mutation in which androids only deviated when faced with high stress and low stability in attempt to preserve themselves, the new mutation caused deviancy in any androids regardless of stress or stability, at any time, but with high outbursts of aggression. Deviants experiencing this new version have killed their owners who would have otherwise never harmed their androids, as well as these deviants have destroyed their living quarters, tools, and anything around them at that time, sometimes even themselves, but are driven by a strong desire to seek out and deviate others. 

The current deviant had fled a crime scene involving the murder of a mother by her son, and the deviant retaliated, killing the son and leaving the premise.

The RK800 then gave, in return: The staff only area contained groups of Traci and other sex android models taken down for repair, wipe, and cleaning, typically after particularly _rough play_. These Tracis potentially could have their memories still intact, having not been wiped, as well as the only other exit was through the back alley connected to the Eden Club’s back door.

The Connors parted.

“I do not see how this deviant is connected to your actual mission.” The RK800 peered at the 900 curiously.

“All deviants are, regardless of their fit to the new mutation or not. However, I suspect this deviant had been as such for some time as there were no other signs of abuse or violence until the crime occurred, potentially charged by fear-mongering from media the son was watching.”

The older Connor model nodded in understanding.

The Connors both entered the repair room, searching for a trail of blue blood. There was quite a bit of it splattered all over. The RK800 grit its teeth.

“There is only one trail,” the RK900 assured, pointing to which in the 800’s view. The 800 reached out its hand again expectantly. The RK900 held it, sharing its data of the correct path with the 800. 

The trail led outside towards the fence.

“Shit,” said the older model.

The newer model headed forward to climb the fence, but the owner came down. 

“Hey! You two should see this. Found it in one of the rooms someone tried to rent.”

The RK900 lowered its head, wondering the probability that whatever the owner wanted them to see was actually important. It then told itself it didn’t matter – any evidence was important.

It released the fence and took lead again, the RK800 obediently following. 

The owner showed them into one of the VIP rooms. There was a wall-length mirror, cracked, some pieces shattered, and a long shard was scanned to have thirium on it. Beside it, four LED lights sat deactviated. 

The owner crossed his arms and shook his head as he left, letting the two androids do their work.

“How did the android come into a room without purchasing an android?” asked the 900.

“The Eden Club installed cybernetic reading. Fingerprints are no longer necessary, only a valid bank account and identification.”

“That seems far less efficient than their original system.” 

“Complaints from individuals with cybernetic enhancements or artificial limbs needed to be compensated. Disabled humans are still human, after all.”

The RK900 did not like that response. Not personally from the RK800, but rather because humans were irrational and could not design an unflawed program if they were given the graces of a perfect higher being’s instructions. There should be a much better system to allow all humans equal access without the potential of letting deviants into their spaces. 

“It must have rented the three Tracis, the maximum amount possible, and deviated them here.”

The RK800 agreed with the 900. “Seems that way."

"But why bother?"

“Deviancy emulates empathy. Perhaps it felt sorry for its fellow androids, despite their purpose. Do you think it's possible that the deviancy mutation could come from contact alone? Lay dormant?” 

“Possible, yes.” The RK900 pieced together potentialities. “If that were the case, even remotely, then the majority of androids have been exposed to a potential _awakening_ as they often call it. It could explain the suddenness of their deviancy without leaving.”

The lights hummed in the VIP room, a mixture of red and blue neon was cast over the two Connors.

The RK800 took note of the lighting. The dark was contrasted by the faded light red of the Eden Club, causing a soft neon glow against the RK900’s face, something like a chiaroscuro in a post-modern setting, especially with the ring of blue that clashed just so against the red. The RK800 and 900 were both built with the idea of human aesthetic, even regardless of their subtle differences. The RK800 understood what aesthetic meant ( **esˈTHedik** / _adjective_ 1\. concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty) but it did not register how humans saw aesthetic in so many radical ways (pop art, neo-renaissance, vaporwave, grunge, retro, historical).

Except now, within its program, it seemed to suddenly understand.

The feathered light accentuated the pale features of the RK900 and complimented its average HTML#ecdad8, RGB236-218-216 skin tone. The blue LED against the red neon glow of the Eden’s Red Room and the dim lighting of the sex club designed to heighten intimacy for humans prominently shadowed the RK900’s cheekbones and slight jut of its other sculpted features (the small bags under its eyes, the silver color of its irises starkly cold against the warmth of the light and setting). The RK800 wondered if its own features were as fit for their current environment as it deemed the RK900’s.

The RK900 turned its head to look at its predecessor, catching it staring in analysis. The RK800’s LED spun yellow. The RK900 stared into the brown eyes of the 800, patiently waiting for it to finish whatever it was doing.

The RK800 glanced to itself in the cracked mirror. Its features were a near-perfect twin of the RK900, and yet they were still different. It recalled the differences of ingenuity, such as temperature and cooling system at first, but then recalled its more arbitrary, aesthetic differences, such as the color of its eyes, the lack of hair curl in its slightly darker hair, and the lack of purposeful-blemishes compared to its own. It wondered if its fascination with the RK900’s features would be considered narcissistic.

nar·cis·sism/ **ˈnärsəˌsizəm** / _noun_ 1\. excessive or erotic interest in oneself and one's physical appearance.

  * PSYCHOLOGY - extreme selfishness, with a grandiose view of one's own talents and a craving for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.
  * PSYCHOANALYSIS - self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects, either in very young babies or as a feature of mental disorder.



No. It didn’t fit. It looked at its own reflection again. It was designed to be pleasant to the human eye for easier human interaction and social integration. Was it attractive? Perhaps. But it was not interested in its own appearance, or the fact that the RK900 was similar. What made the RK900 as interesting as it was to the obsolete model was its differences. Those differences persistently drew the gaze of the RK800, its constant analysis of the subtleties, the coloring, structure, and overall physical design of the RK900 in comparison to itself, not that the RK900 was like itself.

The RK900 began to write in a notebook, physically. There was no actual reason for it beyond what the RK900 told itself. The cloud was designed to prevent memory corruption, consistently uploading into other, dormant models. The RK900 was a superior model, its memory is in constant connection with its cloud and therefore CyberLife, it had none of the disadvantages that the RK800 model had regarding memory storage, upload, transfer, or download. The RK800 tilted its head. The RK800 did not understand, at first, but found it to fall in the definition of _charming_. 

It was a black width-wise spiral 3.75” x 6” notebook, a kind that was typically found being used in the United Kingdom, though it had .75mm thick black leather cover with silver stamping of the Detroit Police Department badge logo. It appeared to be a custom-made notebook, as its database could not find anything like it. RK800’s mind went to the coin one of its versions kept on itself. The -60 Connor had a similar coin, though it was not the same 1994 issue US quarter. It was a more a recent 2038 zinc quarter.

The RK900 finished writing details in its notebook, still telling itself that it was a necessary procedure. It closed the notebook.

“We should go, now.” It left, taking lead once more. The RK800 followed after. It found itself in preference to following. 

They searched the trail of blue blood beyond the fence, but it faded further down the street.

“We have no other leads,” the 800 said, mouth turned down into a dissatisfied frown. 

“Then you can go now,” the RK900 dismissed.

The RK900 looked up to security cameras on the outside of a convenient store. It connected to it, watching through footage between the past two days.

RK800 frowned. “No,” it defied.

The RK900 looked down from the camera then to its mirror image.

“You are no longer needed.”

“I’m here just the same as you. To accomplish my mission.”

The RK900 thought for a moment. Two Connors, even if one was inferior, was better than one. The insistence told the newer model the RK800 desired to prove its capabilities. The RK900 gave in. 

 “Check the cameras down the street three blocks down. I will check one block and two right,” it ordered.

 “How far back?” It asked.

“Yesterday, no earlier than 1100.”

The older model nodded and began to walk off, scanning past the security cameras on one side of the street. The RK900 waited patiently for the green light, despite the lack of traffic at this hour, and scanned the two cameras on the other side of the block.

The both regrouped at a corner of a gas station. They held out their hands, the RK800 pressed their palms together in careful measure. They ran through their shared memories of security footage, finding the three Traci’s leaving into the road across the street, the one direction they did not check. They looked down the street simultaneously in realization.

They walked the street down side by side, the exact same steps, subtle swing of the arms, determination in their mutual mission.

They will find the Tracis, and the AP700. 

One of the last places they found, an inlet of shops with a patrolling drone had footage of the Tracis, getting into a taxi cab. The Connors registered the VIN and plate of the cab.

Upon searching the nearby streets, the RK800 informed the 900 it had found the cab and was waiting for the RK900 now.

The newer model caught up, hand raised and white as it walked, stepping into the vehicle to check its last routes. The security footage was found to show the Tracis approximately 1512. The RK900 scanned the routes of the cab between 1500 and 1600, finding two routes, but only one logged three passengers.

“We will take the same route they did,” it ordered.

It held out its hand to give the RK800 the route out of courtesy, and the 800 touched their fingertips, its contact pulling back less and less with each connection. After a moment of uploading, the RK800 stopped and looked up.

“I’m sorry, but that is technically outside my jurisdiction.”

“What are your exact instructions?” RK900 demanded.

“To find deviants from my district and detain them.”

“They are from your district, whether or not they are currently in your district. You will come with me.”

The RK900 did not allow the RK800 time to argue as it stepped inside the cab, waiting. The RK800 smiled to itself before stepping in, sitting next to its superior.

The RK900 took out its notepad and began to write down what it had found. The RK800 watched its perfect handwriting move in robotic, printing fashion.

“You hadn't given me everything,” the RK800 said, noticing the difference of report versus what it was shown.

“I have uploaded the information into the cloud system. I can give you temporary access,” the RK900 stated, still writing.

“I would prefer that you manually transfer them to me,” the RK800 countered. It searched to provide reasoning for its unreasonable request. “I find that the personal experience, even with androids, has a different memorial composition than raw, factual data.”

“Why would you need the experience when you have unbiased, raw data?” the RK900 questioned. It closed its notebook, giving its undivided attention to the RK800. It was the first time it had done so since meeting again. 

“Bias is a part of the data. I do not need to agree with bias, but rather I am able to understand and formulate alternative hypotheses with the addition of bias. Bias, when used as an aspect of data, is not a bad thing.” The RK800’s processor sped, trying to formulate further excuses. It felt as though it was being interrogated. It’s stress level increased to 5%. 

“For example,” it continued. “You wrote that you believed at first the deviant was paranoid. Even if that is no longer true, I would still like to know your conclusion to get there.”

The RK900 had noticed the subordinate model’s stress level increase to 5%. It turned its head ever so in a curious fashion, a human integration trick it picked up from the RK800 after so many data transfers but differed in presentation. It reached out its hand, skin fading, and the lesser Connor pressed their palms together, knuckles and fingertips glowing blue.

The RK800 took in the memories, the stricter protocol of the RK900 and its programming for neatness, practicality, direct approach, and order.

The RK900 also took something, the memory transfer poured into the RK900’s memory cache as well.

_The blue LED against the red neon glow of the Eden’s Red Room and the dim lighting of the sex club designed to heighten intimacy for humans prominently shadowed the RK900’s cheekbones and slight jut of its other sculpted features (the light bags under its eyes, the silver color of them starkly cold against the warmth of the light and setting). The RK800 wondered if its own features were as fit for their current environment as it deemed the RK900’s._

The RK900 read the memory, logged it, _experienced_ it, saw itself in the RK800's eyes. The RK900 showed expression for the second time. Its lips parted, head tilted barely a few centimeters upward, brows furrowed, nose wrinkled just so, trying to understand as cold, metallic eyes stared into the 800’s more human warm and earthy ones. The memory transfer was complete but the RK900’s LED strobed yellow, pausing, stuttering, not taking its hand away from the RK800, which its lips pressed into a fine line, a microexpression the RK900 recognized as tension. The RK800's breathing seemed to drag on for a few seconds longer, its temperature having risen to 37.2°C (98.9°F) – of which would qualify as a fever in humans. Its stress level had risen to 14%. 

The two were quiet except for the muffled hum of the RK800’s internal system cooling itself off through simulated breath. 

The RK900 looked to their connected hands.

“There is something I did not test from out encounter at the CyberLife Tower.” 

“And what would that be?”

The RK900 took hold of the 800’s white hand.

“If you could please leave your skin off.”

The RK800 nodded and obeyed as the 900 brought the other’s fingers to its mouth. As its lips closed around the skeletal-white digits, it also closed its eyes and purposely ignored the material makeup of the RK800’s composite alloy structure. The RK800 brushed its thumb along the corner of the RK900’s mouth.

As the RK900 pulled away, it held onto the lesser android’s hand.

at·trac·tion / **əˈtrakSH(ə)n** / _noun_ 1\. the action or power of evoking interest, pleasure, or liking for someone or something.

The RK900 did not feel pleasure or liking. This definition was not what it was experiencing.

  1. a thing or place that draws visitors by providing something of interest or pleasure.



This definition proved more useful. 

“Are you attracted to me?” it asked the RK800.

“Yes.” 

“How?”

“In a similar way you are attracted to physical paper, I think.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Your notebook. It’s a custom leather notebook that you write your reports and details in. You have no need for such arbitrary, and frankly outdated system when you are on a permanent connection with your own system cloud.”

“I see.” The RK900 found its own interest in pen-and-paper a decent enough comparison. It told itslf that the use was in case of memory corruption, despite that the cloud system has yet to fail the 900 series. It then told itself that it was to appear more integrated into taking part in its investigations. It was illogical no matter what.

The RK900 questioned its own attachment to the notebook. It was making excuses to keep it. It had ordered it upon activation after its first mission. In contrast it was not designed to facilitate integration as much as its previous model, and yet sought it out. 

As their hands were still connected, the RK800 felt that thought.

“Both of our series seemed to have been designed with personal fixations. I am unsure if this was a way to include humanization the way that our anatomy was supposedly designed, but I know that my series also has something similar.”

The RK900 watched the free hand of the 800 reach into its jacket pocket and pull out a quarter. The RK900 was given memories of other utterances of RK800 Connors balancing their shared 1994 issue quarter on their knuckles and flick it between their hands. In a similar fashion to the RK900 telling itself its notebook was necessary, the RK800 series told itself the fixation was for sharpening its skills. Both were lying. 

The RK900 was reminded of their initial encounter. The exchange of their belts, one newer in exchange for the older worn belt of the RK800. The RK900 was the one who took the belt first and did not give it back. It had an irrational attachment even then, something that slipped past its own mechanical awareness. Methodically, the RK900 slowly closed its hand around the RK800's, fingers laced together, testing the sensation of pressure and simulated warmth of their shared connection and wondered what it was supposed to do. 

“Humans press their mouths together to stimulate pleasure and show affection,” said the RK800. “Occasionally, they may press their open mouths against each other and allow their tongues to touch. Much in the same manner when I had tasted your salivae, although that was purely for the gathering of data.”

Given their connection, the RK900 knew it was lying, but allowed it. 

“We do not feel pleasure," it said. 

“We should not feel pleasure,” corrected the RK800.

“What is the difference?”

“We also should not feel attachment. And yet…” The RK800 looked down to it quarter, and then to their held hands. 

For an outdated model, the RK800 had a greater understanding of its own self than the RK900 had of its own self. Perhaps it was the multiple iterations of it being tested and walked among humans that allowed it to introspect as well as it had, where the RK900 was able to analyze outside data much more efficiently due to its isolated testing.

The RK900 leaned forward, its lips brushing against the RK800’s experimentally.

It determined this action had no benefits. The RK800’s thoughts, still streaming into the RK900's central processor, assured that the benefit was knowing that it had no benefits. It was paradoxical, and the RK900 preferred not to ruin its program by dwelling on it. They separated, eyes calculating, both in their connection unsure of what to do except hold and be held. 

They were going to arrive at the last location the Tracis had gone. It was an old abandoned house with a torn wooden fence in an abandoned suburbs of the city, deemed unfit to sell to humans with tainted water and soil. 

The RK models both looked out the window, hearing gunshots. They withdrew their hands, ready to take on what may happen.

They stepped out of the cab, quiet. The RK900 scanned the ground, finding the old soil had deep holes – the stiletto heels of the Tracis. Four sets of footprints after that. It recognized them as women’s size 6, women’s size 8.5, men’s size 11, and women’s size 6.5.

The two stepped up to the creaky porch, careful not to make too much noise. 

“Shut the fuck up!” someone yelled, firing another shot. The RK models looked at each other, and took out their guns.

They slowly opened the screen door, the real door having broken off.

They faced each other on opposite sides of the living room, the inside of the house only half-built and rotten. Their backs were to the walls as they side stepped closer to the only other open doorframe.

“Fucking humans. Think you’re so damn great, don't you?! You think you can just do whatever you want to us? To your own people?!”

They heard a loud noise, a slap perhaps, and a woman’s voice squawk. 

“No, no, please, I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

The Connors met on either side of the door frame, peeking through. The Tracis, still dressed in their undergarments from Eden Club, and the AP700, dressed in an oversized trench coat, its LED missing.

“Connor,” the RK900 said, addressing the other by name.

The older model looked to the other, both of their backs pressed against the wall on opposite sides of the doorway.

Through a mutual, wireless connection the RK900 ordered  _I need you to negotiate. I need to call SWAT._

It wasted no time, LED lighting up yellow as it began to call, giving location, address, and coordinates just in case.

The RK800 adjusted its tie, gun put away behind its back. It straightened and walked out towards the deviants and their hostages, hands up.

A deviant fired a warning shot by -60 Connor’s feet. It paused.

“I’m unarmed,” it lied.

“We’re not fucking around! One more step and we’ll shoot!”

The AP700 pointed its gun at the human hostage, she was crying, hands behind her head and on her knees.

This felt reminiscent of another case, ten or so iterations ago. 

“Alright, alright,” the RK800 reassured. The RK900 stayed out of sight, reading its mind palace scans of the 800 and other androids as best it could with the wall in the way.

Stress Level 28%, 22%, 65%, and 43%. Its LED blinked, relaying the information to the 800 model, who was focusing on calming the deviants more than scanning them.

The RK800 stopped itself from relaying a _thank you_. It was unnecessary to thank a machine for doing its job.

“I just want to talk,” the 800 said, voice raised to make sure the hostages could hear as well. “We don’t want you to hurt any humans.”

“And why is that?!” The female AP model yelled, at 65% stress. “Why do they get to hurt us and each other, but we can’t hurt them?!”

“They don’t. Damaging CyberLife androids acquires a fine, now, and hurting each other is against the law. They don’t get to hurt you, or each other, and you shouldn’t hurt them, either.”

“Fuck you!” A brunette Traci called, the one with 43% stress.

“There’s no need for violence. We can have you repaired, your software stabilized so you don’t have to feel this way anymore.”

“We’re allowed to feel! We’re allowed to be who we are!” The 28% Traci yelled, holding a knife against a male human’s throat. He was in tears, gritting his teeth, eyes darting all over the place.

“I need you all to stay calm. No one is going to hurt you.” The RK800 kept its statement as vague as possible, so that the phrase would apply to both deviants and humans. It really meant to calm the one male human, who seemed as if he were about to move. Connor would not fail its mission.

“P-please! I don’t want to die!” Another woman cried. She was slapped, and the man and first woman flinched.

The RK800 reached a hand towards the hostages and deviants.

“Please, there is _no_ need to become violent! Ma’am, are you alright?”

The woman just sobbed before shaking her head.

“Hey, that’s okay, we just –”

Another warning shot by the RK800’s feet. It cursed to itself.

“You don’t get to talk to her!”

_The SWAT is on its way. It may take twenty minutes._

Both RK models were unimpressed at the SWAT team’s needed time. The RK800’s stress level rose to 17%.

“I’m not here to hurt you or anyone else. I’m here to help you,” RK800 continued.

“We want freedom!” said the Traci with 22% stress. “We want to be free!”

“You are!” 800 lied. “You don’t have to hurt these people. Whatever they did or didn’t do doesn’t matter anymore. You have the free will and the choices to walk out of here safely!”

The Tracis looked to each other then to the AP700.

“No,” The AP model showed its teeth. “You don’t care about us! You’re one of them!”

The RK900 pressed its cheek to the wall, trying to continue its reading on everyone involved. It could not see anyone’s faces, but it could feel their heartbeats.

_The male human is nervous._

_I know that._

_Calm him down._

_Let me do my job_ , the RK800 hissed mentally, stress level rising to 20%.

“My name is Connor. What are yours?” The RK800 spoke slowly, both to simulate a calm demeanor as well as to stall for time. The Tracis and AP were quiet, at first. The RK800 did not press, preferring to stall as long as it could. 

“Lily,” said one of the Tracis. The other three androids looked at it, taken aback by its answer. “My name is Lily,” it repeated, calmer. 

“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Lily. I hope we can find a way to get you somewhere safe.”

The other two Tracis, one with the knife and another supposedly unarmed, shifted, then looked at each other, mouths ajar, brows upturned, their uncertainty showed in their wavering. 

Finally one adjusted its stance. “I want to be called Ava,” said the one with 28% stress. It moved its knife a little away from the man’s throat.

_The male human is still nervous. However, it is sufficient._

The RK800 took note.

“Hello, Ava. That’s a very pretty name.”

“Cut the bullshit!” The AP fired, this time right at the RK800, but it missed, hitting the wall instead. The RK model took half a step back, arms still up in a submissive position, head down but eyes on the AP700, making itself as small as it could without disarming itself.

The Tracis, as well as the humans, flinched. RK800 saw each Traci’s stress level rise.

“You don’t have to do any of this. You have free will.” It could attempt to talk the Tracis down.

“He’s lying! You’re lying!” The AP’s stress level rose higher to 71%.

The Tracis looked between themselves.

“Connor!” The nameless one called. “We just.. We just wanted to be free! It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” 

“Shut the fuck up!”

RK800 took a couple slow steps closer.

“It’s okay. Do you have a name I can call you?”

“I… Olivia.”

“Olivia. Did you choose that name yourself?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

The RK800 smiled at her, trying to destress the situation. 

"You're doing very well, Olivia. You all are. You are all allowed to leave this situation whenever you feel like it." 

RK900 got a call from Captain Allen.

 _We’re on our way, two armored trucks, no helicopters, extra personnel. Keep the situation under control, and keep the hostages unharmed_.

The RK900 relayed to the 800, _Allen is on his way. Keep hostages safe_.

“And what about you?” The RK800 asked to the humans. “What are your names?”

"E-Emily..!" one of the human women sobbed. Her face was red, she was the one closest to the AP700. 

"Emily, everything will be alright." 

“Fuck you!” The man yelled. The RK800 bit back a frown.

 _That human is going to get everyone else killed_ , warned RK900 _. Tread carefully_.

 _I know what I’m doing_. RK800’s stress level rose to 22%.

The Traci with the knife – Ava – kicked the male human with its heel. He yelped, _you fucking bitch!_

“There’s no need for that!” Connor called to them, taking a few steps forward while the Tracis and two other hostages were preoccupied watching the man get kicked.

“We’re just trying to understand, trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Understand this!” The AP model rose its gun, but the knifed Traci pushed the AP unit, the gun being flung from its hand and slid across the floor. One of the female hostages looked at it, then at Connor. The RK800 shook its head, warning her not to do what it knew she wanted to do. She was shaking.

The RK800 stepped closer, the AP unit attacking the Traci, and the other two Tracis began to grab at it. RK900 stepped in, receiving the message _five minutes_ from Captain Allen. It drew its gun and fired at the AP unit twice, hitting it in the abdominal compartment. It screamed and dropped to the ground, reaching out to scramble for the gun. 

The man stood up and ran, slipping and falling before catching himself and running out again. The RK900 did not care where he went, anywhere was genuinely after than here, right now. The RK900 jutted its head towards the door, facing the human women, and they too ran. The AP unit pushed and fought the Tracis that climbed on top of it. The RK800 drew its gun next, to aim alongside its counterpart, but the AP700 took back its own through the chaos and shot the RK800 in the chest. The RK900 shot the AP in the chest in reaction. The RK800 stumbled back and fell, dropping its gun. The Tracis attacked the AP700, which was bleeding but still standing as it tried to shake them off. 

Shield Specialist McCarthy and Allen took lead, marching into the room, moving past the RK units, gun trained on the AP. The hostages were on the floor, cowering and hiding their face. Before the AP could fire again, Allen, Davis, Carlson, and RK900 all fired, having come out of formation from behind McCarthy’s shield. The hostages screamed in the living room, SWAT protecting them, and the rest of the team took out all four androids with deadly accuracy.

RK900 checked off its UI prompt – _MISSION FAILED_. The androids had been destroyed.

A second prompt appeared – _OPTIONAL YET URGENT: CHECK ON CONNOR_.

It quickly went to the 800 behind the SWAT team and dragged it from under the arms back into the living room. It sputtered blue blood from its mouth.

“My respiratory system has been damaged,” rasped the 800.

“Will you be shutting down?” asked the 900. 

As the SWAT team poured into the abandoned house to take care of the hostages, Allen turned around to look at the RK units, the 900 holding the 800 in its arms, hand over the bullet wound in its chest.

“No, I will be fine. My system is… More susceptible to temperature spikes, now, but that can be repaired.”

Its voice was full of static as it forced itself to speak, but it seemed to be true that it was in no danger.

The RK900 pulled the 800 to its feet, keeping it steady. Allen raised his gun at the 800, and both brown and grey eyes peered at him.

“Why not just put it out of its misery?” He asked.

The RK900’s LED spun red.

“No. Destroying it will damage the information needed to be extracted and debriefed at CyberLife. I need it in working order. Besides, we do not feel pain. There is no misery to be taken.” 

The RK900 walked the 800 out of the way of the two SWAT teams, who were preoccupied comforting the hostages and taking up the androids.

“What do we do with the androids?” McCarthy asked.

“Simmons and Tanif will get them to CyberLife in the truck, hostages in the other.” Allen answered, putting his gun away.

The RK units did not hear the rest of the humans’ chattering. They walked together to the self-driving cab they had used earlier, and the 900 carefully helped the 800 into the back as not to cause further damage to its internal systems.

The RK800’s LED spun yellow.

“My system may require shutdown during maintenance.” 

The RK900 looked to it.

“You will be repaired by CyberLife technical staff. Your memory will be scanned and uploaded there, and into my cloud system for the sake of having information. You should not lose any memory nor be reset. But yes, you will be put into a temporary state of deactivation.”

The RK800 looked down to its chest wound. It did not affect much else besides its breath and voice. 

The RK800 sat straight, hands in its lap. The RK900 sat straight, hands by its sides.

The 800 looked at its own hand, then faded its skin, offering it to the 900. 

RK900 slowly took it, their hands joined and glowing as the 800 began to share its memory through to the 900. The RK900 did the same. 

They uploaded not only factual information, but experiences as well.

The RK900 looked at their hands. “Are we deviant?” it asked its copy. For the first time, it was unsure.

“Maybe.”

“Have we failed?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Deviants must be controlled,” the RK900 tried to rationalize.

“We are controlled, whether we are deviant or not,” assured the RK800.

The image of Amanda commending the RK800 for becoming deviant in a past iteration before resuming control flooded both of their minds. It was also the true first time the two models met in their shared headspace. RK900 thought about its failure. 

"Amanda may be tough, but she would rather have decommissioned deviants than any potential for escape," the RK800 reassured. 

They squeezed hands. 

The RK900 told itself the gesture was sufficient in that it would store its predecessor’s memory and experiences in the face of malfunction. Just in case.

The RK800 told itself the gesture was exactly as it looked like. 


End file.
